


ithavoll

by sanzenen (haillenarte)



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Age Difference, Anal Sex, Body Horror, M/M, Necrophilia, Oral Sex, Self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-28 23:36:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21400513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haillenarte/pseuds/sanzenen
Summary: Written November 10, 2019 — November 11, 2019; spoilers for Book III. There are too many regrets between Alfonse and Líf, and too few barriers to separate them.
Relationships: Alfonse/Líf (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 101





	ithavoll

**Author's Note:**

> i thought about waiting for lif to be released as a playable character, but, well, i didn't. 
> 
> please note an additional warning for, uh, skeleton sex stuff, as well as possible alfonse/bruno, alfonse/niles, or lif/thrasir if you are looking for those ships. 
> 
> do not read this piece if you are sensitive to anything aforementioned.

  


When the Summoner fires the Breidablik into the heavens, and Líf steps out of the gates in a shroud of light and smoke, Alfonse isn't surprised. Not exactly. For one thing, Thrasir joined their army not long ago, and for another, Heroes are neither good nor evil. They need not be victorious, nor even notorious. The definition of what a "Hero" ought to be is vague and nebulous, and in all the worlds, there was bound to be at least one in which Líf would return to a prosperous Askr.  
  
So this was destined. This was preordained. And yet — watching Lif take slow, unyielding steps toward the castle gates, black armor gleaming in the glorious sun — Alfonse feels a chill settle in the pit of his stomach all the same.  
  
  
  
Líf sets boundaries for himself, though no one seems to notice them besides Alfonse. The man spends much of his first day in _this _Askr holed up in the castle's expansive library, pacing from shelf to shelf, but there's no reason for him to do so, since he clearly doesn't intend to read. There is nothing in the stacks of books that could possibly interest him. He must already know the contents of the books that surround him.  
  
No, Alfonse thinks, Líf is hiding in the library because any other location would bring back too many memories. _The mess hall where we'd sit and eat with the Heroes. The training hall where Father taught me how to wield a sword. The gardens that have too many of Sharena's favorite flowers. _The library has long been Alfonse's own favorite place to be when the world seems like too much to bear. It was where he spent most of his time in the days following Zacharias's disappearance, when he thought he could never trust another Hero to be his friend.  
  
At his desk in the castle library, Alfonse watches Hel's former general stalk the shelves for some time — but when Líf walks fruitlessly between the tomes dedicated to Askr's history and the books about the World of Awakening for the sixth time in a row, Alfonse rises from his seat and catches the taller man by his armored wrist.  
  
"Alfonse," the prince murmurs, sharing their name. "You know you don't need to lock yourself in here."  
  
It is a statement, not a question, and Líf understands why that should be so. The claws on the man's gauntlets dig into his palm when his fingers curl into a fist. "And you know very well that I don't need you to tell me that," is his cold reply. "I am here because I have chosen to be here."  
  
The prince does not relent. "This is your home as much as it is mine, Alfonse."  
  
Líf's red eyes gleam with momentary irritation, but then their eerie glow subsides. He looks, suddenly, very weary — and Alfonse can't be sure if he's imagining it, but the man's expression seems to soften behind his bestial mask. Grimly, he turns his wrist in Alfonse's grasp, then gently loosens the prince's grip. "Then leave me be for the moment, Alfonse," he says quietly. "I will go where I am needed. I am where I wish to be."  
  
  
  
There are things that must be planned for in the wake of Hel's defeat, and Alfonse knows that best of all. The castle's reinforcements are in need of review. Several towns in the country's outskirts need to be rebuilt. Funds must be authorized; contracts must be executed. And King Gustav's funeral rites must be rearranged now that his corpse has been laid to rest a second time.  
  
Some in Askr talk of crowning Alfonse the new king, whereas others argue that it would be improper, that it is far too soon to turn over the page of Gustav's legacy and mark a fresh beginning for Askr's history. Few have thought to ask him what _he _thinks of it. His mother, as always, seems intent on shouldering her burdens by herself, and leaving her children to manage the Order of Heroes.  
  
Of all the Heroes, none occupy Alfonse's concerns more than Líf.  
  
Their brief conversation in the library must have done Líf some good, because the masked swordsman has finally left the comfort of the dusty tomes. Instead of haunting the shelves and bookcases, however, Líf has taken to shadowing Alfonse like some Hoshidan ninja: always some distance away, and always in secret, but never far, and never without Alfonse's knowledge.   
  
If his intention is to be Alfonse's ghostly bodyguard, well — the prince doesn't particularly _need _one, nor does he feel comfortable with asking _himself _to serve as his own escort — but if it puts Líf's mind at ease, Alfonse sees no reason to intervene.   
  
They walk together in silence.  
  
It would be interesting to watch the former general fraternize with those Heroes who served as royal retainers in their own worlds, but Alfonse has never seen Líf speak with any of the other Heroes who have been summoned to Askr. Even Thrasir spends much of her time consorting with dark mages from other worlds, but Líf is always alone.  
  
Sometime in the evening, however, as Alfonse makes his way along the castle's walls, he notices that the steady echo of Líf's footsteps behind his own have stopped.  
  
He turns and looks over his shoulder. Líf is there, having stopped a few paces behind him, ghostly body glowing blue in the dark. The man is looking over the wall; Alfonse follows the line of his sight to the castle gardens, where Sharena and Eir are making their way through the flowers, arms comfortably linked at their elbows.  
  
Alfonse lifts his head and fixes his gaze on Líf's face. "They're headed —"  
  
"To the hill where Sharena likes to watch the stars. I know." The man's tone is so flat that he sounds almost bored. "And she will sit up in the grass, and light up with excitement each time she sees a shooting star, and call out all manner of wishes as they come to her. And she never wishes for the same thing twice in a row."  
  
Alfonse frowns. This line of thinking is far from healthy, and he is well aware of it, which means Líf must be aware of it as well. "Do you want to join them?" he asks in an undertone, low as his voice will go.  
  
Líf draws his fur cloak more closely about his shoulders, as if in a vain attempt to conceal his gaping ribcage. "I can't," he answers, after a long pause. "I'm better off trying to forget."  
  
  
  
Líf disappears sometime between dinner and the bath, for — Alfonse concludes — at least three reasons: he likely does not need to eat, he does not wish to socialize with other Heroes, and he probably wants to give the prince at least some modicum of privacy while bathing, though nothing he might see would surprise him. But that's fair enough, Alfonse figures. Unlike some rulers, he doesn't need a shadowy knight hovering behind his back at all times.  
  
His hair is still wet as he exits the bath, dressed in linen pajamas; he has draped a towel around his neck to catch stray droplets of water as he makes his way back to his bedroom. Tomorrow, he figures, he can deal with planning his father's funeral procession. Tomorrow, he will speak with Commander Anna about their finances. Tomorrow, after a night's rest, there will be more of today. He enters his room.  
  
Líf is sleeping in his bed.  
  
Alfonse is so startled that he drops his towel, and reaches reflexively toward his waist for a sword that isn't there.  
  
_He hasn't exactly made himself at home_, Alfonse thinks, once he's gotten over the initial shock of seeing a thickly-built ghostly blue man atop his own familiar mattress. Líf is sleeping on a corner of his pillow, as though he felt he wasn't allowed any additional space, and he is sleeping on top of the covers, still clad in his armor, his fur pelt draped over him in lieu of a blanket. Alfonse wonders if he is even capable of feeling cold, or feeling much of anything at all. He must be, if he arranged himself like this.  
  
Líf seems like the type who might attack if he were startled in his sleep, so Alfonse seats himself on the edge of his mattress, reaching out very slowly to brush a lock of hair away from Líf's face. "Alfonse?" the prince murmurs, trying to maintain as innocuous a presence as possible.  
  
Líf stirs; the steady pace of his breaths shifts. His eyelids flutter open, then stay half-lidded. "Alfonse." His voice is deep and drowsy. "I didn't know where else to sleep."  
  
"I thought you slept in the barracks with the other Heroes," Alfonse says slowly. Then he furrows his brow. "Wait — do you mean to say that you haven't slept since you were _summoned_?"  
  
The former general is so heavy in his armor that the firm mattress has sunken in around him. His clawed hand fumbles loosely, as if in search of something to hold, and then stills. "In the years that I served Hel, I never knew rest," he affirms. "I never needed it. Her curse kept me immortal, unyielding. But after your Summoner called me, I felt... more and more weary with each passing day..." His eyelids droop dangerously over his cheeks again. The bags under his eyes look so dark as to be sickly. "If you don't want me to sleep here, I'll leave."  
  
The prince hesitates. Then he shakes his head. "It's fine," Alfonse says, running his hand through Líf's hair again. "Stay. This was your bedroom once. This is your bedroom, too."  
  
  
  
Alfonse doesn't know where Líf goes when the man isn't following him, but most of the time, he can hazard a guess. If Líf is not in the library, and he is not shadowing Alfonse, then he is very likely somewhere in the dungeons, speaking with Thrasir.  
  
Of all the Heroes in Askr, Alfonse has only ever seen Líf in the company of Thrasir. Hel's former generals have an easy camaraderie with one another, a bond born from spending an eternity in the realm of the dead, and what they speak of, Alfonse doesn't know. He can't possibly know. He understands very well the kinds of decisions Líf made to become the man that he is now — but he can't imagine the kind of woman Princess Veronica might become, nor what kind of relationship they might grow to have between them. He knows that Thrasir is rather unfriendly, but that much was never in doubt. Beyond that shallow impression, he hasn't spent much time with her off the battlefield, and he doesn't know much about her at all.  
  
He thinks, very vaguely, that he would like to be friends with Princess Veronica. That he would like to seek peace between Askr and Embla. But there is no reasoning with that scared and lonely girl, not as Alfonse knows her, and as long as Loki remains by her side, she doesn't seem likely to mature.  
  
Brave Veronica is not like the Veronica of his world — she lacks _that _Veronica's wild, fearful eyes, her reproachful gaze — but she is the closest thing Alfonse has to Veronica here in Askr, and so he does not hesitate to approach the armored girl one morning, when Líf must be with Thrasir and she is waiting outside of the stables, apparently looking for someone. "Princess Veronica," he says, addressing the Brave Hero without fear. "What are you doing out here?"  
  
Veronica looks him over with cold confidence, as if she is the queen of the castle and he is just another of her lowly stableboys. "I am waiting for Xander. He promised to give me a riding lesson," she answers crisply, in the same sort of tone one might use to discipline a servant.  
  
Alfonse can't help but allow confusion to cross his face. "You already ride your horse very well, Princess."  
  
"So what if I do?" she asks. She has the gall to roll her eyes with the exasperation of a much older girl. "What do you want from me, Prince Alfonse?"  
  
_No point in beating around the bush if she's not one for small talk._ "I was wondering whether or not you ever speak to Thrasir."  
  
"That woman? No. I want nothing to do with her — just as she wants nothing to do with me." Idly, Brave Veronica taps her scepter against the ground. "Whatever you may think to the contrary, Thrasir and I have nothing in common. She is not me. She has already made a litany of choices that define her in relation to me. _I_ would never bow and scrape to some mongrel queen who took my dear brother away from me, even if for his sake."  
  
"I see," Alfonse replies, trying not to stutter. He's caught slightly off-guard by this Veronica's calm and collected personality, particularly in comparison to that of the one he's fought with time and time again. "Thank you," he adds, somewhat awkwardly. "For the honesty of your answer, I mean."  
  
Veronica arches a single ash-blond brow. "Another piece of honesty for you, then," she says finally, fixing him with blood-red eyes. "You are too close to _yours_." Before he can protest, or ask her what she means, she has waved her staff in dismissal of him, and turned on her heel towards the stables. "You ought to exercise more caution, Prince Alfonse."  
  
  
  
At night, when Alfonse retires to his chambers, he is pleasantly surprised by Líf's presence in his bedroom once more. The man isn't curled up on the mattress this time, at least — instead, he is waiting like a wraith by the window, shrouded in his mask and his fur cloak like some sort of assassin in waiting.   
  
Any other young man might be rightly disturbed, but the prince of Askr takes his guest in stride. He doesn't ask too many questions; he knows why Líf is in his room. "Do you mean to sleep in your armor again?" Alfonse asks, unruffled. "Wouldn't it be more comfortable if you removed it? Or is it part of your body?"  
  
"I can remove it," Líf answers tersely, but he doesn't move to do so. He seems content to leave it at that — a non-refusal — but then he notices, or seems to notice, the way Alfonse is staring at him. "You are curious," he observes, so blandly that it sounds almost like an accusation.  
  
"Well... yes, I am," Alfonse admits, open and honest.  
  
He's never been particularly fond of ghosts, or zombies, or the resurrected dead, the paranormal. It would be easier to stomach them, at the very least, if he understood how one could _wear armor._  
  
Líf seems to hesitate a moment longer — it is hard to read his expression behind the mask — but in the end, he gives in, silently, and without admitting it. Without saying another word, the former general sheds his mantle, letting it rest over the back of Alfonse's armchair; he removes his belt and the tattered skirt around it, letting both accessories fall to the floor, such that he is standing before the prince in only his skintight black armor.  
  
Alfonse's breath catches in his throat, and then he has to wonder _why_.  
  
He doesn't get a moment to pace his breaths. Líf extends his left arm, almost as if to display it for Alfonse's sake. "This," the man says, turning his wrist over such that he displays a partially-hidden buckle on the side of his gauntlet, "unclasps here. The pauldron comes off like so. The greaves come off in parts. These sleeves are part of a jacket..."  
  
Alfonse didn't ask Líf to demonstrate _how _his armor is removed, but he allows the man to explain, largely because he himself has always taken great comfort in explaining things to others. In the end, Líf's ensemble is not unlike Alfonse's own golden Order of Heroes uniform, and when he has shed the last of his plate armor from his body, Lif strips off his jacket and throws it, too, against the floor.   
  
Alfonse tips his head to one side, curious and wide-eyed. He hooks his thumb in the waistband of his own linen pajamas as a gesture. Líf takes his silent cue, rolling his neck in what seems like brief exasperation before he strips himself of his trousers, and stands before the prince, fully nude.  
  
It's strange to look at him. Alfonse fought Hel in her own throne room, tore at her skirt and sleeves with his swords, watched her body crack like glass before it finally shattered into a thousand pieces — but she had been _fully _composed of whatever ectoplasmic material held her ghastly body together. Líf, as it turns out, is part corpse: the blue substance his chest is made of merely fills a gaping gash through his body, and though his chest and neck and shoulders have been fully replaced by this glowing material, his arms and hands look more or less human. His rib cage and spine is visible, as are part of his hips. He has no visible organs, no muscle tissue; his greying corpselike skin merely stretches over the infinite blue substance of his body, like cloth wrapped over ice.   
  
His legs, feet, and genitals are fully intact — but Alfonse tries to pay that no particular mind as he reaches out and lightly rests his fingertips over Líf's chest. _Cold and hard, but not glasslike. Almost gelatinous to the touch. If I broke through the surface tension..._  
  
Líf catches him by the wrist, pries his fingers away. "Don't," he warns, and he sounds like he means it. "Yes, you could put your hand inside if you tried to. I'd rather you not."  
  
Alfonse knows better than to let his curiosity get the better of him. He lets his hands fall to his sides, still half-marveling at how much wider, how much taller Líf is in comparison to himself; he takes a seat on the edge of his mattress, and then feels even smaller for it. "And the mask, too?"  
  
Líf has yet to remove his mask. He pauses, eyes narrowing slightly, as if suddenly re-evaluating his trust in his younger self. "Are you prepared for what you might see underneath it?" he asks.  
  
"I'm sure we've both seen worse," Alfonse answers, undaunted.  
  
Líf grimaces.  
  
After another moment, the man lowers his head, sliding his thumb beneath the chinlike protrusion at the bottom of his mask. He unhooks it from behind his ears.  
  
Then he looks up, and Alfonse realizes — not without a jolt — that the man has no jaw.  
  
The eerie blue substance that composes most of Líf's upper body has formed a generally handsome shape, with a clean jawline and a thick, well-muscled neck — but he has no visible teeth or mouth, as Hel did, and there is a gaping void beneath his nose. His spinal column reaches up towards his neck and then stops. Pieces of shattered bone float in his ectoplasm, and when he tips his head back, staring at Alfonse defiantly, the prince realizes that it looks as though something smashed through the entire bottom half of his skull.   
  
It seems as though Líf can't speak with the mask removed; he puts it back on before he speaks again. "The blast that killed me claimed part of my skull and most of my chest," he explains, with grim hatred in his eyes. "Thrasir was luckier, in some ways — she died with her head intact, so Hel gave her a new body from the neck down. Hel gave me this ribcage, too, and this spine, but she never saw fit to give me a new jaw. She liked that she could silence me if she took the mask away. But I grew used to keeping silent, in any case."  
  
Alfonse's throat bobs in his neck as he swallows on a dry throat. Something like pity must show on his youthful face. "I won't ask you to remove it again, then," he says quietly, and he hopes he doesn't look as sad as he feels.  
  
But that's enough of show-and-tell, the prince figures. They ought to recollect themselves now and go to bed.   
  
The only problem with this plan is that his body isn't willing to heed his mind.   
  
Líf, being Líf, caught on to his problem before Alfonse even realized that there was one. The man snorts with vague disbelief at the burgeoning hardness between Alfonse's legs. "I see. You find me attractive," Líf observes, in a disdainful tone that suggests he disagrees.  
  
"I — w-well — I do." There's no point in hiding it, in trying to conceal the lump in his trousers, or the way Alfonse's eyes keep roving over Líf's handsome features, so like and yet unlike his own — those broad shoulders, that impossibly wide chest, the thick cordlike muscles of his thighs. "Don't you?" he asks weakly.  
  
It is, again, impossible to read Líf's blank expression behind the mask. "I stopped thinking of such things long ago."  
  
It sounds like a reprimand, Alfonse thinks, and perhaps it is: an adult version of him must surely find these _teenage urges_ unappealing and immature. They should move on. They could mutually agree to not discuss it, to dress themselves once more, and go to bed normally, as if nothing happened.   
  
But Líf won't stop _staring _at Alfonse's erection, which quite frankly is only making it worse.   
  
Awkwardly, the prince squirms against his mattress, wishing that someone, _anyone _could provide him with the right thing to say in this situation. "Leave it alone," Alfonse protests, trying vainly to pretend it isn't there as he settles back into his pillows. He can feel his face reddening. "I don't need — I'll ignore it."  
  
Frustrated, Alfonse closes his eyes, but then — but then he feels his pillow sink beside him, and he opens his eyes.  
  
Líf is on top of him, straddling his thighs.  
  
"Better me than someone else," the man breathes lifelessly, and there is no warmth in his hands as he slides his palms up Alfonse's waist to remove his shirt.  
  
  
  
When Alfonse wakes in the morning, Líf is gone.  
  
It's for the best, Alfonse thinks. This way, at least, the man doesn't have to watch his younger self wince as he gets out of bed, sore but satisfied; he doesn't have to see the pathetic way Alfonse hobbles as he struggles to get dressed and go about his royal duties as usual.  
  
All the day long, the prince tries to hide the aches and pains in his body, paranoid that others will _notice, _though he knows it's all in his head. Fortunately, Sharena isn't the sharpest when it comes to his behavior, and doesn't seem to notice anything different about him; Commander Anna stares at him for too long, once or twice, but she seems likely to assume that he just overextended himself in the training hall. And there aren't many Heroes who keep close enough contact with Alfonse to notice anything off about him, save perhaps young Prince Dimitri, but even he would just assume that Alfonse sustained an injury during a mission at some point.   
  
Late in the evening — just when Alfonse thinks that he's safe, and that no one will _know _— he finds himself pinned to the wall by a man in a familiar blue cloak.  
  
Niles was one of the very first Heroes to arrive in Askr's hall, and Alfonse can't imagine why, given that the man is one of the most decidedly unheroic rogues he's ever met. "I've been trying to suss out just _who _in this castle could have possibly gotten a taste of you," the white-haired archer breathes into his ear, "but I think I've figured it out now. You like them tall, dark, and handsome, don't you, Prince Alfonse? Is it better when he knows _everything _you like?"  
  
Alfonse feels his face flooding with color, but he tries to maintain an innocent front all the same. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ Stupid of him even to let Niles get this close to him. "I — I don't know what you're talking about, Niles."  
  
"Don't play dumb. You've been limping all day, and you'd have gone to see the healers if it wasn't something _indecent_. You and that Líf, hm?" Niles's voice is a sultry purr against his skin, as the man reaches out to tug Alfonse's hairclip loose. "Never would have imagined you'd be depraved enough to ride a corpse. Here I thought you had a taste for men like me and that other fellow — what's his name — Bruno?"  
  
_Zacharias. _Flustered and affronted, Alfonse pulls away, his face twisted in equal parts embarrassment and anger. He tries to fix his hairpin back against his scalp. "Breathe one word of this to — to him, or to anyone else —"  
  
Niles chuckles, pulling back from the wall as if to let him escape. "Oh, no worries, Your Highness," he promises. "Your secret's safe with me. I'd never even think of corrupting all the innocent children in this place... your sweet little sister included."  
  
Niles's words seem sincere, but his tone is so exaggeratedly saccharine as to be obviously sarcastic. The prince bristles. "You wouldn't dare!"  
  
"Wouldn't I, though?" The rogue laughs again, waving jauntily as he saunters away. "Good night, sweet prince. If that man of yours doesn't keep you happy, you can always come see me."  
  
  
  
It's not that Niles's offer isn't tempting, in its own way, but Alfonse knows better than to take it, and Líf keeps Alfonse _happy _enough. It's hard to be dissatisfied when the man has a perfect body — corporeal or not — and he's more than willing to do anything to please the prince, though why and for what reason, Alfonse can't quite rationalize.  
  
But it doesn't matter, not in the ways that it would matter if Líf were anyone but _himself_, and Alfonse can't ask too many questions when he's on his knees in front of the armchair in his room, sucking Líf's cock with wild abandon. Through a half-lidded haze, the prince watches the still-masked swordsman throw his head back in triumphant pleasure, legs spread wide like a king on his throne; Alfonse slides his lips up and over Líf's thick shaft, and watches the man's blue chest shudder with his breathless breaths.  
  
It's an interesting experience, Alfonse thinks in a detached sort of way, because Líf tastes like nothing, smells of nothing. The man is dead and alive at the same time. It was a surprise that he could even feel arousal, or attain release. He is solid, however, and real — and one particularly enthusiastic movement of Alfonse's tongue earns him the reward of Líf's fingers fisted tight in his scalp, Líf's voice in the form of a low moan that stokes the heat in Alfonse's belly.  
  
_Just a little more,_ Alfonse thinks as he jerks himself in pace with the bobbing of his head. _Just a little longer, and I win —_  
  
But right when he thinks he's got his counterpart cornered, that the man is going to come, Líf growls like a hungry beast, and pulls the prince sharply off his cock.  
  
"Wh-What are you doing?" Alfonse sputters, held by the hair; panic races through his pulse for all of one moment before he remembers that he's not in real danger. He manages something else, too, something incoherent, but Líf throws him roughly on top of the bed, where the impact sends his limbs sprawling in all directions.  
  
He doesn't have time to recompose himself. All at once, Líf crawls atop him like a panther on all fours, then rips his mask off, and lets it clatter to the floor.  
  
He looks at the prince with gleaming red eyes for one moment, and then lowers his empty mouth.  
  
"Wait, Alfonse —"  
  
Alfonse shivers. The surface of Líf's ghostly mouth presses against the tip of his aching need, ice-cold at first — but then the outer tension breaks, his cock curves _inside_ Líf's ghostly blue throat, and the man's insides feel warm. Too warm. A sickly kind of heat like the warmth of a beast's maw, inhuman, but so deliciously tight around him, and — and Alfonse needs it, he thrusts into it despite himself, desperate for sensuous friction, for the heat of release — Líf bobs his head to match the movement, and Alfonse takes him by his dull greying hair and _tugs_ —  
  
Release leaves him curling his toes against his bedsheets, spent and sweating, gasping for breath — wonderfully, impossibly satisfied.  
  
He doesn't know how long he lets his eyes close as he heaves for air atop his mattress, but when Alfonse opens his eyes, Líf is waiting for him, having apparently — silently — finished himself. Alfonse isn't sure whether or not he's disappointed. He doesn't see any of his own semen floating around in Líf's body, which raises the question of _if he swallowed_, and if so, _where it went._ He isn't about to ask.  
  
"I thought you didn't want me inside of you," he breathes, after a long silence.  
  
Líf doesn't answer, because he can't. After a moment, he reaches for his fallen mask; he brings it up to his mouth, affixing it over his nose and ears with practiced grace. "You enjoy pleasuring me, don't you?" he asks, once the mask is in place. "Why did you think I might not want to do the same?"  
  
  
  
Much to Alfonse's surprise, Niles keeps his word, and tells no one of his secrets. Though he braced himself for scandal, the prince wakes day after day to a peaceful castle, to a blissful Summoner, to the knowledge that no one in Askr yet knows that he's exchanged far more than just words with his older self. Life goes on as it should — and no one knows that he's been touched by death.  
  
In a manner of speaking.  
  
Líf isn't always by his side, however, and Alfonse means to go up to the castle garden to watch the sunset when he realizes that there are two glowing figures locked in conversation at the gates. He is, in one way or another, a leader of the Order of Heroes; he doesn't have to hide himself either in fear or in shame. But he hides himself on reflex anyway, concealing himself behind a pillar as he listens to Líf and Thrasir talk.  
  
"You've been spending an awful lot of time with the Alfonse of this world," Thrasir is saying, in what seems to Alfonse like a teasing voice. "Do you like him more than you like me, now?"  
  
"He's not a _friend_, Veronica. You are." Líf sounds exasperated. "Though I notice that _you _don't spend much time speaking with the Veronicas of this world."  
  
"I thought I told you to stop calling me that while we're here." Thrasir clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth, impatient; Alfonse is reminded suddenly of Brave Veronica's disdain. "Honestly, why would I bother? I don't have much interest in playing house with empty-headed little girls. But yours is a little older, I suppose. Does that make him so much more fun to play with? Is he your new favorite doll?"  
  
"He doesn't _amuse _me, if that's what you mean." Líf folds his arms and leans against the wall. His voice is quiet, subdued. "It's just... when I look at him, I'm reminded that this isn't my world. This isn't my Askr — it's his. And I... above all else, I want to keep him from the decisions that I made."  
  
Thrasir is quiet for a moment, seemingly taking this answer in stride, but she ruins the solemnity of the moment after a pause. "See, you make things too complicated for yourself when you think of him as a version of you," she sighs, tapping her nails against her smooth red thigh. "If you just accepted that you're two different people, you wouldn't have to care so much about what he does."  
  
"I do accept that we are different people," Líf retorts. "We've simply lived part of the same life. But if I can keep him from becoming what I became —" He breaks off abruptly, for no reason that Alfonse can deduce without getting a better view of the situation, but then he sighs. "I want to keep him from harm," Líf says quietly. "My kingdom and my sister are beyond salvation. I know that now. At the very least, so long as I am under his Summoner's contract, I want to protect him."  
  
Thrasir is silent.   
  
Then she sneers.   
  
"I don't see how you're protecting him by spending every night in his bedroom," she teases, talking over the slightly pained choking sound Líf emits from beneath his mask. "Oh, don't glare at me like that! We're all grown up now, you and I. You're a fool if you think you've been subtle about it. I see the way you look at him!"  
  
"I... well." Líf presses a clawed hand against his temple, as if struggling desperately for an answer. "That's just — a matter of —" He takes an obvious moment to recompose himself, speaking too loudly once he thinks he's managed it. "If you had the chance to give yourself everything you wanted, wouldn't you seize it?"  
  
Thrasir laughs, long and loud, tossing her head back in maniacal confidence. "You're _twisted,_" she exclaims, with obvious delight. "But that's what I like about you, Alfonse. That's what I've always admired. You don't think like other people. You never have."  
  
  
  
They don't talk about the conversation that Líf had with Thrasir — and, in fact, Alfonse isn't even sure if either of them were _aware _that he was listening in or not — but Líf is strangely aggressive, once they've greeted each other in their shared bedchamber. Perhaps Thrasir's teasing hit more of a mark than she realized. It's as if the masked knight has too many ideas at once, too many different impulses he wants to act on, and Alfonse loses track of how many different positions they take up, how many times he's come in one evening. Pressed up against the wall, caught by the wrists, Líf's arms hooked beneath his knees — all that matters is that Líf seems intent on screwing him _silly_, and Alfonse is all too happy to oblige.  
  
It would be different, of course, if he had a morning council meeting.  
  
Even Líf's prodigious stamina starts to flag eventually, however, and when Alfonse feels him slowing down, he coaxes the man into lying back against the bed so that the prince can ride him, just as Niles colorfully envisioned only a few days prior. Líf is a vision, lying back against the bed; Alfonse can see the wrinkled sheets through his chiseled, translucent body, and Líf can rest his palms against Alfonse's waist, guiding the prince's hips as they please him.  
  
This is good enough, Alfonse thinks. Líf seems content to trust Alfonse with at least some of the work. And yet — as the man groans beneath him, seemingly desperate for release, yet too far from it to demand it — Alfonse knows that something is missing, that Líf needs something _new_.  
  
He has the sneaking suspicion that he knows just the thing.  
  
He waits to set the right pace for it, the right tone; he bucks his hips wildly, sliding up and down Líf's hard cock with the expertise of a whore and not a royal prince. Then, without hesitation or forewarning, right when he feels the arousal in Líf's body beginning to pull his abdomen taut with pleasure, Alfonse presses his palm into Líf's belly, and then — after his hand sinks in as if into warm water — he takes hold of Líf's _spine_.  
  
This wins Alfonse a moan unlike any he's ever heard Líf make before.   
  
A guttural groan escapes the man as he arches his back straight off the mattress, pressing himself into Alfonse with beastlike greed, deeper than he's ever been — and even as Alfonse loosens his grip, Líf's fires have been stoked beyond cooling, as he _snarls_, red eyes _blazing_, he slams Alfonse's body down against his cock, again and again, faster than ever before, and Alfonse comes, feels Líf come inside of him, and — and —  
  
This was, Alfonse thinks hazily, better than he anticipated. They've never kissed — they can't, given Líf's condition — but Hel's former general seems so pleased, so startled and delighted by Alfonse's touch, that he loses himself in the heat of it, and tries to press the prince's lips against his mask in imitation of a kiss, his hands tangled in Alfonse's blue-gold hair. Alfonse whines against the mask; Líf sits up, hooks Alfonse's legs around his waist. He is satisfied, but greedy for more, and Alfonse knows this by the way the man has yet to pull out.  
  
"You enjoyed that more than I expected you to," Alfonse admits breathlessly, allowing himself the indulgence of kissing the tip of Líf's nose.  
  
Líf doesn't respond, not with logic, or with reason. "I'll _ruin _you," the man growls, but there is an affectionate rumble to it, and he keeps nuzzling Alfonse's neck. "I'll _conquer _you. Damn it all, did Thrasir tell you that would drive me wild? That _witch_ —"  
  
Alfonse only breaks into rich laughter, encircling Líf's neck with his arms. "No, she didn't." He can't hide the amusement in his voice, the satisfaction of having his counterpart wrapped around his finger. "But I thought about the way you told me not to touch you," he breathes. "I thought about what I like you to do to me. And then I realized — we are the same person after all, aren't we? We hate it when others know what will make us tick. We aren't honest at all, least of all to ourselves."  
  
He kisses Líf's mask again; he runs his hands through the man's hair, brushing it back, so that he can get a clear view of his own gaunt, aged face. "Relax, Alfonse," the prince breathes. "Relax. Lie back and rest a while. I'll help you forget everything."  
  
  
  
He's learned how to avoid limping after a long evening with Líf, but he's still startled when — as he's leaving a fiduciary meeting with some royal advisors regarding the Order of Heroes — someone shouts his name. It's Sharena; he knows that before he's even turned around, knows it by the sound of her voice, which he could never mistake for another's anywhere in the world.  
  
"Alfonse!" she calls, running up to him, with worry writ all over her big green eyes.  
  
"Sharena?" Anxiety seizes him before he's even thought twice about it. Idly, Alfonse wonders what's happened to make his younger sister so upset. "What's wrong?"  
  
"No, nothing's wrong, it's just, um..." She is lying; Alfonse knows that by the way she is twirling a lock of her hair around her finger. "You and Líf... I mean, the other Alfonse... you've been pretty close lately, right?"  
  
For a moment, he's terrified that Niles has betrayed him after all, that Sharena knows what he's been _doing_ with Líf. "Is it that obvious?" he asks weakly. "Well, he and I are... fundamentally similar. We get along. What about it?"  
  
"Well, it's just..." She sighs, looking a little sheepish, and Alfonse can't help but think, not for the first time, that his younger sister is the cutest girl in the world. "Maybe I'm jealous," Sharena confesses. "I want to be close with him, too. But I know his Sharena was important to him, and I know I can't replace her. I wouldn't want to. So I've been keeping my distance... but I don't know if that's the best thing for him. I don't know what he needs. I thought you might have a better idea." She laces her fingers in front of her body, anxiously clasping her hands together, almost as if in prayer. "Do you suppose there's a chance that he and I could ever be friends?"  
  
Alfonse is quiet for a moment. Líf is not within earshot; he could say anything he wanted. He could even lie to Sharena, if only he thought it would do any good.   
  
"He just needs more time, Sharena," Alfonse says, as gently as he can manage. He casts his gaze out of the windows, out toward the golden sunset over the mountains of Askr. _Our beautiful kingdom. Everything he lost._ "And even the time we have may not be enough. It is possible his wounds will never heal, and he may very well need more time than we could ever give him."   
  
He shakes his head.  
  
"But I mean to try," he continues. "I hope, someday, he can find peace in our halls. And I hope... for his sake as well as yours... that the two of you may someday be friends."  
  
Sharena's expression smooths over; her worried face is soon replaced by a more relieved look. "You really believe in him, huh?" she asks. "You really believe in yourself."  
  
Alfonse smiles. He thinks of ethereal blue against the night sky, of the snarling beast in the dark. "I would give him all that I have," he says, and for once, he knows he is being honest.

  



End file.
